To Cling Ever Tightly
by Girlbird
Summary: Denethor loved gentle, sweet Finduilas; Finduilas was devoted to him enough to leave behind the Sea which she loved. Her greatest wish was to be a mother but she was ever frail... Denethor would do all in his power to keep her there with him, but it was not meant to be. Intended as a series of vignettes chronicling their marriage: a strong but selfish love.
1. Chapter 1

** 1. As a Fountain From the Earth**

- T.A. 2976 -

"Finduilas, you must not marry him," Prince Imrahil said, his hand on his sister's arm. "Listen to me."

Finduilas snatched her hand away, staring at her brother in disbelief. "You like Lord Denethor," she said. "He has treated you as a younger brother, with utmost affection and even respect. Where is this coming from?"

"I do," Imrahil said, "But you must not go to Minas tirith, dear sister. You must never marry him. I fear a future with this man, in that home, would only suffocate you."

"What reasoning do you have for that?" Finduilas exclaimed, staring her brother down. In spite of her glare, for once her brother did not yield, but stood firm, raising his chin stubbornly. "A life with him is all that I want, all I have ever wanted. I will not only have his love, the love of a great and noble man, but a grand household. I will have the kingdom of Gondor in love with me, I will bear the children of Gondor's future. I have long dreamed of such an honor and now it is at my fingertips."

Imrahil sighed and gestured grandly out toward the sea, so grey and angry on this cloudy day. Gulls swooped and soared along the rocky sides of the cliffs and down between the waves, their cries echoing across the bay. "You will not have the wind and the salt air keeping you strong, nor the feel of the sand beneath your feet. You will not have your freedom."

"He is the Steward's son, not a jailer," Finduilas protested, "And he loves me."

"I do not doubt it," said Imrahil, looking fiercely into her eyes, "But a man like that will keep you like a bird in a gilded cage. He will be your master, Finduilas, not your equal."

"He will be my husband and I am determined to be his lady," Finduilas said sweetly, sweeping back her raven hair from her face in an effort to qualm her anger. She knew it furled and flew like a banner against the grey-green backdrop of the sea which spanned out below them. They stood on the balcony of Finduilas' chambers.

"I know you are jealous that I am leaving you, little brother, but there is no reason to try to frighten me out of this match," Finduilas said more gently, laying a hand on her brother's cheek. He nearly leaped away, looking at her in stony indignation.

"I am trying to protect you," he snapped, and shaking his head, he backed away and left his sister standing on the balcony.

Finduilas turned to face the sea, her hands shaking with anger and indignation. How dare he? What did Imrahil, scarcely out of boyhood at the difficult age of twenty, know of Denethor, a man over twice his age? Doubtless he was jealous of Denethor… And who wouldn't be? Finduilas smiled to herself, thinking of Denethor's face as he cupped her face in his hands and asked her to be his wife, and after she had responded yes. First serious and apprehensive, he had glowed with pride and astonishment, looking almost boyish as a grin flashed across his face. He had swung her around and kissed her mouth, holding her up in strong arms against his chest. She had never felt so safe, so protected. He treated her like something incredibly precious to him. He treated her like his queen.

It was at the moment of this proposal that Finduilas had fallen completely and utterly in love with him. Already enamored of him from their first conversations, when words had flowed off their tongues like wildfire, so quick was the connection between them. Whether walking along the shores of the bay of Belfalas, or seated side by side on a bench in the gallery, poring over old books, their hands had just seemed to find one another, coming to rest side by side on the page they studied, or their fingers interlacing just slightly, hidden in the folds of Finduilas' sweeping skirts. He had never ventured to press further on the boundaries of propriety, but his eyes when they met hers spoke of all the things they could not say or do. Finduilas was sure that her own eyes had betrayed the same intention.

She had been flattered that Denethor had paid her any attention, at first. She was the daughter of the Lord of Dol Amroth, of course, so he would have been loathe to forgo the common courtesy of formal greeting, but to seek out her company and to ask her genuine questions of her opinions and herself went beyond such courtesy. While normally her youthful air of innocence and almost childlike beauty struck her assets, in the face of the forbidding, proud Denethor, she had felt little more than a childish slip of a girl. She was small in stature, with hips that were narrower than she would have liked and small breasts. Her face seemed too round, her neck too short, and the light dusting of freckles that appeared on her cheeks and nose in the summer months seemed to her offensive to her womanly age of twenty-five. She was not the statuesque beauty she wished to be, the kind that would bring powerful men to their knees in an instant. She did not take after her mother, whose tall, willowy figure seemed to float through the air and whose graceful, refined features portrayed wisdom, strength, humor and serenity all at once as she looked at her children, her husband, and her people. Next to her mother, Finduilas had ever felt like an ugly duckling, forgetting all at once the striking contrast of her raven hair against creamy white skin and the redness of her heart-shaped mouth, and entirely unaware that the natural sweetness of her expression caused men and woman alike to follow her with their eyes.

And yet Denethor found Finduilas beautiful. Proud, keen-eyed Denethor, the future Steward of of Gondor and the man who did not care to dance and who paid little attention to the women whose eyes followed him lustily wherever he went, had approached her. At the banquet her father had held in Denethor's honor, he had cast aside his rich mantle and ascended the stairs to where Finduilas was seated at the high table. His hand extended, he had bowed deeply before her and asked her to dance. All eyes had been on her as she stood and took his hand, allowing him to escort her down the steps onto the floor. Thankfully she had not tripped, she had thought later, remembering how deliciously light she had felt in his arms.

She knew it was an advantageous match, for Denethor as much as it was for her. It was fitting and appropriate that Denethor, who would eventually inherit his father's rule, take to wife a daughter of the fiefdom of Dol Amroth. At five and forty he was hardly a young man, though he was very much in his prime. Perhaps part of his interest in her was rooted in the necessity that he wed. But Finduilas knew that Denethor loved her and cherished her.

"I have been a cold and spiteful man, Finduilas," he had once said to her, taking her hand in his own. Instead of meeting her eyes, he had looked at the lines in their palms, as if timid to share this truth with her. "Yet you have awoken compassion in me, like a fountain that bubbles up from deep within the earth."

Finduilas experienced difficulty imagining Denethor as spiteful or cold, for when he was with her he showed nothing but warmth to her and to those around him. Yet she believed him when he said that he felt new life within him. She felt the same stirring deep within her, as if her life, which to this point had held little purpose, was now laid out before her. Although her heart would ache to leave the sea, she would go to Minas tirith and become the wife of Denethor. If Illúvatar willed it, she would stay by his side always.


	2. Shyness

2. Shyness

"Come, Finduilas, let us bid goodnight," Denethor said in his newlywed's ear. She smiled sidelong at him and nodded, suddenly flushing the color of cherries. Denethor found his impatience stirring more at the endearing sight of her and he took her hand and pressed it to his lips, meeting her gaze. To the cheers of the guests, the couple bid farewell and left the wedding feast, Denethor sweeping Finduilas into his arms and carrying her away.

When they were alone, Denethor took his wife in his arms. "I love you," he breathed on her eyelids, before pressing a kiss on her brow. She felt so small and perfect under his hands and he could scarcely believe that they were wed.

"Kiss me, Denethor," Finduilas sighed impatiently, rising up on her toes. Denethor laughed and complied. He wanted to do more than kiss her. He had waited months, endless, tortuous months, to be alone with her in this very room. And yet, suddenly, with her there in the room he did not know how to proceed. She was half his age. What did she know of lovemaking? What did he know of women of her youth and virtue? Did she truly want him?

Reading his reluctance, Finduilas pulled away and watched him. "What is it, my love?" she asked gently but he could read the uncertainty, the briefest annoyance in her voice. "Why do you not - proceed?"

"Do you want me to?" Denethor asked, a bit taken aback by her businesslike manner. "I was not sure if - "

"Of course I want you to," Finduilas replied in incredulity. "Why wouldn't I?" She turned away and lowered her gaze. It was a while before she spoke. "I would be - ashamed - beyond words if you did not treat me as you should your wife."

"I am so old for you," Denethor said apologetically, and took a step towards her. "I half-feared you would not desire me."

"I married you, didn't I?" Finduilas retorted playfully, poking him in the chest, then turned serious. "I feared the same," she whispered suddenly, and buried her face in his chest.

"You what?" Denethor querried, sitting down on the bed and pulling her onto his lap. He thought he had not heard her correctly.

I feared you would not desire _me," _she said again, barely louder than the first time she had spoken.

"How could I not, when I look upon you?" Denethor asked, shocked. "When this creature is before me it is as if there is no other person on earth."

"I am small and plain, slender almost as a child," Finduilas said as if she did not believe him. She was blushing furiously and would not meet his gaze.

"You are long-limbed and lovely, with curves as graceful as - " Denethor shook his head and laughed at himself, poetry evading him.

"Do not mock me, Denethor!" Finduilas exclaimed, breaking away from him. She retreated to the corner of the room, staring out the open window. She looked as if she was ready to cry.

Denethor stared at her desperately. Mock her? He stood and went to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I do not mock you, my love. It is what I see when I look upon you. You are very much the object of my desire - and the woman, not the child, that I love."

He pressed a kiss on her neck, just next to his hand. He loved the taste of her skin, the curve of her throat and shoulder, the way her hair fell over the other shoulder in a waterfall of raven silk. He wanted to worship every inch of her.

Finduilas shivered beneath his palm, softening into him, whereas before she had been tense and stiff, and Denethor smiled, kissing her neck higher, behind her ear. "I want you," he whispered, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against him. She leaned her head on his chest with a shiver of contentment. "I want you," he said again in her ear, sliding his hands up over her breasts and down again, gently caressing her hips. "I want you."

"I want you," Finduilas responded, her hands covering his own. She turned in his arms to run her hands over his chest, imitating him. Shyly, she trailed her palms down his torso and slid them under his shirt. "Denethor, I need you."

Denethor sighed as she touched him and kissed her mouth with growing passion. Needing to be closer to her, he struggled out of his shirt and tunic, and was met with her lips on his skin. She too was fumbling with her own garments, but the complicated wedding gown posed a problem. Denethor undid the fastenings up the back with difficulty, but finally she was standing before him in only the thin under gown she had worn beneath her gown.

Denethor stepped back to look upon her with an intake of breath. Her hair hanging loose and mussed from kisses failed to cover the rosy nipples that were visible from beneath the thin fabric. Her cheeks were flushed and he could tell that she half-wanted to cover herself but wanted him to look on her even more. He would have complied, content to stare at her, forever. However, the fire in both of their eyes indicated that neither would be satisfied with such a fate.

His eyes fixed on her face, he removed the rest of his clothing until he was standing there before her utterly exposed. He saw her eyes widen at the sight of all of him, but she looked intrigued, not frightened. She slowly slid her under gown from her shoulders and stepped out of where it lay pooled on the floor, going to him and standing on tiptoe to put her arms around his shoulders.

"I long for you, love," she whispered, "I am so eager to be your wife, and to learn what that means."

He picked her up in his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing her as he carried her to the bed.


	3. Surprises

3. Surprises

"My love, might you leave your worries a moment?" Finduilas asked softly almost one year after their wedding, raising herself on her tiptoes that she might press her lips to the crook of her husband's neck. She leaned her cheek against the curve of his upper back and reached up to stroke his long black hair, which was already heavily streaked with silver, though he was only forty-seven and young for the line of Numenor. Beneath her cheek, she felt him heave a sigh.

Her husband currently leaned upon the cool marble railing of their balcony, his head bowed in thought. He had been recounting his latest concerns to her and had sounded almost panicked as he spoke haltingly of them. There was so much he did not reveal to her and yet she felt she knew enough – his anxiety was ever evident to her and worried her sometimes, though she tried to quell her fears and accept him for what he was. Still, sometimes it was too much for her to bear and it seemed that even she could not bring him back to peace. And she had such news to share with him this evening, such news that made her heart soar so that she feared she could not contain it longer, but also feared he was too distracted to hear it.

"My love," she said again, trying to keep the pleading from her voice. "Won't you let the weight of the world off your shoulders for the evening? Sometimes you worry me."

He sighed and turned to face her, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "I have a headache coming on."

"See, you must rest, my darling," she said lightly, caressing his cheek. "Look at you. Your hair is already turning completely grey."

He looked at her and she thought she saw a hint of a smile there in the cheerful candlelight that flooded out onto the balcony from inside. "You are having second thoughts about wedding me, Finduilas," he said, humor in his voice, though perhaps also a glimmer of vulnerability that pierced the heart of his wife as she detected it. "An old, tired man, too old for the likes of you. My hair must repulse you."

"Nay, the silver becomes you," Finduilas assured him, laughing at this familiar conversation. "You appear strong and wise and noble and all who lay eyes upon you think you a worthy and dignified leader, my love. Ever prepared to take over for your father, when that time comes. My handsome husband," she added with a knowing smile.

"My lovelier wife," he returned, a real smile playing on his lips, though the tiredness was not gone from his eyes.

Finduilas forced herself to bite her tongue and to keep from revealing her secret. She let out a breath and stared down and out across the white city that spanned out in its levels beneath them. Sometimes she wondered how it would be if she herself might suddenly let go and tumble over the railing and fall... wildly down, down, down... and then...

"Finduilas?" Denethor asked, breaking her morbid reverie. She turned her head to look at him, startled. "What is it? You look as if you have something to say. You have been wrestling with it all evening, I can tell."

He looked worried again and Finduilas smiled inwardly. Did he think she was displeased with him? Best let him suffer a little more. She shrugged and lifted her hair off of her neck, gratefully allowing the gentle evening breeze to kiss her neck and cool the skin there. It was a hot summer night, but up here, the air flowed freely.

Unexpectedly, Denethor took her hair in his own hands and bent to kiss the revealed skin at the nape of her neck. She shivered with mingled pleasure and happiness that he was finally in a mood to attend to _her_, not the country. "My love, what is it?"

Finduilas smiled. "I do have news for you." She turned around to look up at him, meeting his gaze, which was coolly composed. Too composed, she thought. She knew he was hiding growing apprehension.

"All is well?" he prompted, taking her chin firmly in his hand and studying her face. "You have not been yourself lately."

"No," agreed Finduilas, "But yes, all is well."

"Well, get on with it, woman!" he exclaimed impatiently, dropping his veneer of indifference.

"I am with child!" she blurted out in a rush of long-repressed delight. The long months of worrying when she had, each month, proven to have not conceived were over. All she wanted was to bear a child and now her dream would come true. "Denethor, you will have a son!"

He stared at her, his mouth open as if he was not sure that he had heard her right. He was silent for so long that Finduilas feared the worst. Was he displeased? Would a child be too much to handle at this time? Then Denethor's face changed into an expression of sheer awe. He cupped her face in his hands.

"Can this be true?" he whispered, searching her eyes almost wildly. She nodded, smiling giddily as he picked her up in his arms and swung her around. When he finally set her down, they were both out of breath for laughing and found themselves bent over and clutching one another as they recovered their footing.

Immediately, Denethor's face changed again to one of concern. "Have I hurt you?" he asked, his hand going almost instinctively to her belly. Finduilas shook her head with a giggle.

"No, my love, I am fine. Your son is fine." Full to the brim with happiness, she turned and wrapped her arms around him, and he cradled her head against his chest, holding her tightly.

"You cannot know it will be a son," said Denethor after a moment of silence.

Finduilas smiled. "Oh, but I can. I feel it."

"Can you now?" Her husband kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him then, feeling her eyes shining with all the love in her heart for this man whose child she would bear. He returned the look as he bent his head to kiss her mouth, then knelt on the ground and leaned his head against her belly. She clutched his head against her and wept for joy, staring up at the stars in thanksgiving.


End file.
